AGBA: THE FORGOTTEN GENERATION?

I was birthed in Ibadan, in the great city where the footprints of my life journey stay imprinted, in the great city where the home of the great Ogunmola, my great great great grandfather lies amidst the other infamous brown roofed houses of Ibadan.

In January 2016, I visited the Ogunmola Square and though it was my first visit to the Compound, the connection to my relatives felt like a lost and found piece of a jigsaw puzzle to my life. These were my people, who without reservations took me on a journey, through their insight and life experiences, both to the past and the present.

Ogunmola, as I was told by the Agba [The Head Of Ogunmola House]  of the compound was an Ifa priest born in Iwo Ni Fesu. He came to Ibadan during the Ijaiye war involving Oluyole, where he agreed to fight for the Oluyole King. His fighting skills during the war were quickly recognised by other fighters, tagging him as the ‘Ope Ijaiye ko le royin Ogunmola-(The palm tree located at Ijaiye has not grown since the war due to his fighting skills). Upon his return from the Ijaiye war, he was bestowed the title of the ‘Bashorun Ogunmola’ of Mapo area, Ibadan.

He died of small pox in 1867, leaving three children, Osun, Ilori and my great great- grandmother, Obasa.

Though centuries have passed, Ogunmola remains in our minds, even if only when we recite the oriki of Ibadan.

‘Ibadan mesi ogo, Nile Oluyole’

‘Ilu Ogunmola, olodogbo keri loju ogun’

I also spoke to other relatives in the Compound, most of whom were the elderly I captured images of. The grey in their cataracts pierced the humanity of my soul as they all shared their experiences. Their stories were captivating, different but noticeably similar in their conclusions, the theme of which was poverty which they managed by relying on hand-outs from families, any individual kind enough to spare some change from their pockets and ‘Agbo’, cheap local herbs, for their poor health

When I looked at their hands, it had beautiful strokes which to me told stories of their past and present. They are hands which have toiled the earth, hands which have contributed to the success of some generations, hands which should now be catered for.

Their faces only told me one thing that this is the forgotten generation.

We say ‘Black don’t crack’, but to whom do we refer? Because the blacks in these images have cracked, cracked from being forgotten; cracked like the walls of their decayed houses.

Culled on request from duduimages.wordpress.com